


For the love of crêpes

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale thinks too much, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Books, Crepes, Crowley to the rescue, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Paris - Freeform, Pining, The Bastille, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), abuse of miracles, and the brioche, canon-typical alcohol use, overuse of the word crêpes, the French Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-07-31 06:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: It's Paris, 1793, in the midst of the French Revolution.  Aziraphale is peckish, has a craving for crêpes (and the brioche), and finds himself needing to be rescued from the Bastille.  Crowley comes to his rescue and Aziraphale realises that this isn't the first time the demon has done so. And more to the point, what is he going to do about it?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EilidhOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EilidhOg/gifts).

> For Laura, who won my services in the Rupert Graves birthday auction. Apologies for taking oh so long. This is just the prologue, there is more to come!

It was quiet in London, apart from the light rain which occasionally tapped at the windows of Aziraphale’s lodgings. Books were strewn everywhere; on shelves, dressers and piled up on the floor. He was going to have to do something about that sooner or later; perhaps he could open a book shop. Not that he would actually sell any of his prized collection of course, but the idea certainly appealed to him.

Aziraphale absently walked around the interior of the rooms, feeling unsettled. He tried sitting down with one of his prized collection, a lovely leather-bound edition, and a glass of wine, but the feeling didn’t abate. He watched the rain fall for a while, but he still felt disconcerted.

If anything, the feeling was stronger, and now he was peckish, on top of it all! Crêpes would be delightful, he thought to himself. Nice, delicious and fluffy crêpes, purely scrumptious in their sweetness, lovingly complimented by a tangy strawberry or fruity jam.

Well, the only proper place one could get crêpes, authentic ones in any case, was Paris. What would be the harm in popping over to Paris, having a lovely meal and then popping back home? Granted, he _had_ been reprimanded just last month for performing frivolous miracles; too bad he couldn’t miracle Gabriel away, he idly thought. However, if it came down to it, he could always say he was working to thwart evil, which would of course outweigh any frivolities incurred- including the crêpes. And the brioche, of course. Couldn’t forget the brioche, especially as he could probably bring some of that back with him. Brioche, thank heaven, was slightly more portable than crêpes.

Aziraphale gave himself a once over in the looking glass. The Principality’s outfit had been chosen with care, down to the heels on his white silk shoes. The embroidered gold brocade on his coat shone as exquisitely as the buttons, which he had polished earlier that day. The lace cuffs and collar were starched and pristine. Nodding at his reflection, Aziraphale was satisfied that he was ready to leave.

Yet, there was something itching at the back of his mind, something he felt he had surely forgotten. Aziraphale pondered on it for a long moment and then ultimately decided it could not be entirely too important, if he couldn’t recall, and with a thought and a snap of his fingers, he was on his way to Paris.


	2. Entering Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the history lesson.

In June 1790, the French National Assembly had voted to abolish nobility and all that it stood for. As a movement, one of the things that the French Revolution was known for was being terribly anti-aristocratic. This meant, that those who paraded about in silk finery or who were known for being fond of the finer, more scrumptious things in life, often found themselves in a spot of bother, if a spot of bother could be known by a different name; the guillotine. 

This was especially so throughout the Reign of Terror as it is now known as, where anyone who even was remotely suspected as being against the revolution or Robespierre, was subject to death by said guillotine. Anyone who happened to be connected to Christianity or who was dressed like an aristocratic dandy in silk, would have been noticed, arrested, and silenced immediately. This was what Aziraphale recalled in rather vivid detail once he miraculously appeared in Paris and observed the city.

Oh dear, was Aziraphale’s first thought. He could hear the screams and the cheers; a chilling mix. He shivered. 

He had simply forgotten about the French Revolution, as one might do when focusing on crêpes (and the brioche). He could feel the despair emanating from the Bastille; it curled around him like smoke. Distracted by what he was experiencing, he didn’t see the executioner and his minions until it was too late.

“Bugger,” he muttered to himself, while internally groaning at the anticipation of the paperwork that he would be facing if he couldn’t talk himself out of this.


	3. Enter the demon Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley to the rescue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've literally watched this scene of the cold open over a dozen times. I certainly hope I've captured them both. The dialogue is from the script book, but I've made a few edits to match up with the dialogue from the cold open. Their inner thoughts are all my own.

Aziraphale soon found himself in a dungeon within what he assumed to be the Bastille. These details had ceased to matter once these menaces to society had their hands on his silk finery. He was left there for some time, forced to listen to the sound of the guillotine over and over. He did his best to pray for the souls of the departed, but he began to grow increasingly anxious the longer he was sat there in chains. He regarded them and began to wonder if he shouldn’t just miracle himself out of there and back to London safe and sound.

Once the executioner returned, he tried to argue and reason with him, while he also tried to avoid hearing what was happening with the guillotine. He shuddered, pulling away from the hideous man.

“Animals!” The angel spat out. 

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that.” A voice came from somewhere behind him within the cell.

A glimmer of hope rose inside Aziraphale’s chest and he grinned, delighted to hear the demons teasing lilt. Crowley. He turned around to see the demon sitting there in the corner of the cell as if he owned the place; as if he were sat at a bar and not in a fairly disgusting cell.

“Crowley? Oh, good Lord . . ..” Aziraphale tried not to be coy as he looked the demon up and down out of the corner of his eye, despite the fact that time had stopped, just not for the two of them. 

Crowley, dressed as a French peasant, in his customary colour scheme, was sat behind him. While he was dreadfully happy to see him, the angel wasn’t quite sure about his counterpart’s hairstyle. He did love to see his long hair flowing down his back and this style with the curls and the tieback, was not as aesthetically pleasing as it normally was. Aziraphale quickly realised these were not the sorts of thoughts one should have when one was so close to mortal peril, and quickly pushed them aside.

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a bookshop?” Crowley questioned as he stared at the angel, dressed in his English cream and gold clothing. Of course, he was dressed like an aristocratic dandy; this was Aziraphale we were talking about.

“I was. I got peckish,” Aziraphale replied. He tried not to sound altogether entirely too petulant. He took a few hesitant steps with no particular goal.

“Peckish?” Crowley’s eyebrows raised into his hairline in disbelief. 

“If you must know it was the crêpes. You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche. . ..” Aziraphale _was_ still rather peckish as he hadn’t had his crêpes or brioche. He hoped that now that Crowley was here, this would be remedied, and soon. He sat down again, trying to keep from twisting his hands together.

“So, you just popped across the Channel during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?” Crowley shook his head. His angel certainly didn’t always use the brains he was blessed with. He stared at the angel in disbelief.

“I have standards. I had heard they were getting a bit carried away here but. . ..” Aziraphale fidgeted about, getting to his feet and wandering about again for a moment. He still felt caged, trapped.

“This is not getting ‘carried away.’ This is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine. Why didn’t you just perform another miracle and go home?”

Because I haven’t had my crêpes yet, Aziraphale thought.

“I was reprimanded last month. They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles.” The Guardian of the Eastern Gate tried not to sound like that hadn’t put in in a right mood.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale paused a moment. Well, truth be known, it wouldn’t have been the first time he had such a reprimand. Sometimes it was so much quicker to just miracle a cup of tea into existence than going about making it from scratch and waiting for the water to boil. And really, could he be blamed for that? It did take such a long time.

“I got a strongly worded note from Gabriel.” Being reprimanded by heaven and especially Gabriel made him anxious and uncomfortable. Aziraphale looked down at the grimy floor, avoiding Crowley’s gaze.

“You were lucky I was in the area,” Crowley drawled, not unkindly.

Not for the first time in several millennia, Aziraphale wondered how Crowley knew when he was in trouble. He always seemed to be there at the right time. Once or twice would have been coincidence, but this many times? It was surely unlikely. Could Crowley sense when he was in peril? In danger of being discorporated? He needed time and space to think about this. And perhaps some wine.

“I suppose I am. Why are you here?” Aziraphale waited for an answer.

Crowley cocked his head. “My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance. So, I thought I should find out what they were commending me for.”

“So, all this is your demonic work? I should have known!” His voice was raised at the end, filled with anxiety. Aziraphale got to his feet again, frustrated with the Bastille, the French, and now Crowley.

“Nah. Humans thought it up all themselves. Nothing to do with me. Right,” Crowley said, and with a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale was freed from the chains.

“I suppose I should say thank you. For the er, rescue,” Aziraphale smirked slightly, rubbing at his wrists.

Crowley suppressed a shudder as he got to his feet and crossed the room. “Don’t say that. If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes.” 

“Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?” He offered the demon an angelic smile.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Of course, Aziraphale was still on about being peckish, despite how close he had become to being discorporated. He would never understand the Principality. 

“Looking like that?” Crowley pulled a face.

Aziraphale tried desperately not to roll his eyes but failed. Sighing, he flicked his fingers and found himself dressed in the executioners clothing. He resisted the urge to improve the quality of the fabrics. 

“Barely counts as a miracle, really,” he murmured. It wasn’t as if he had conjured the clothing from the ether, merely just swapped outfits. Oh, he was going to miss those lovely silk shoes, he thought.

Now that Aziraphale was dressed in a way that would escape capture or notice in public, Crowley re-started time with two snaps of his fingers. The executioner was dragged off amidst the sounds of the guillotine and the cheers of the crowd outside.

Crowley shook his head. “Dressed like that he’s asking for trouble,” he sniffed. They continued to watch as he was led down the corridor.

So, what’s for lunch?” The demon asked, despite already knowing full well what the answer was doing to be. He kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale, looking forward to seeing the look of delight that was about to cross his face.

“What would you say to some crêpes?” Aziraphale grinned once more.

Crowley most certainly wasn’t disappointed.


	4. An angel and a demon eat crêpes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Aziraphale finally gets his crêpes and does a lot of thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @Lavender_and_Vanilla for helping me out with this chapter and the next.

Aziraphale wasn’t surprised when Crowley accepted his invitation. They had dined and drunk together countless times over the centuries; today would be no different.

Once they made their way away from the Bastille, it didn’t take long for them to come across a suitable location for crêpes, much to the angel’s delight. They both ordered the savoury ones which had ham, egg and cheese, but Aziraphale couldn’t resist an order of lemon and sugar ones for dessert, while Crowley polished off the bottle of wine. After all, Aziraphale had come a long way for them.

“Absolutely scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“Worth nearly getting discorporated for?” Crowley teased.

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, my dear.” Smiling fondly at the mocking from Crowley, Aziraphale picked up his wine glass, took a sip and began to ponder.

He didn’t know why the demon was in Paris in the first place, just grateful that he had shown up when he had. He desperately wanted to ask how Crowley had known that he had been in peril, as he had been thinking earlier, but that was dangerous territory indeed; something that had been left unspoken over the centuries each and every time the demon came to his rescue.

Because when it really counted, at the times it mattered the most, Crowley was always there. His very own guardian demon. Especially when he was foolish and got himself into a spot of bother where he most certainly should have known better. Now that he had a moment to consider it, maybe subconsciously he did these somewhat reckless things in hopes that Crowley would come to his rescue and play the hero and saviour.

So, where did that leave him, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate? Well, it left him completely fucked.

Aziraphale was fairly certain there was something between them, something more than the Arrangement; he wasn’t a complete oblivious fool. But what he did know was that ‘here be dragons’ and he was sure they were both playing with fire.

Nothing good could come from any admission of fondness- for either of them. Heaven would give him a slap on the wrist (or a punch in the gut) and recall him to some unsuitable office job; no books, no wine, no crêpes, and certainly no wily serpent to thwart.

And Crowley? He would most certainly be destroyed. Either side; heaven or hell would not tolerate it and would eviscerate and execute Crowley to set an example.

He could not allow that to happen. He could not allow either thing to happen. He suddenly realised he was wringing his hands; Crowley would surely notice. He just needed to get through this meal and then he could go back to London and carry on making preparations for his book shop and Crowley would never be the wiser that he was having _feelings_.

“Angel? Earth to Angel.” Crowley waved a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale startled and came out of his reverie. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t realised that Crowley had been trying to get his attention, for what looked like for some time. The bottle of wine they had been sharing was now empty, and at some point, the plates had been cleared away. 

“Oh, I am sorry dear. I didn’t mean to get so lost in my thoughts.” Aziraphale offered up what he hoped was a reassuring look.

“A penny for them?” Crowley teased.

The angel smiled. “It’s nothing.” He lied, pausing a moment. “Just thinking about preparations for the book shop. So much left to do!” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t push. “So, planning to stay in Paris, Angel? Maybe perform a few miracles? Eat some more crêpes?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, I think I’ve had quite enough excitement for one day. Besides, I’ll still need to find a way to spin this for the umm. . . head office.”

Crowley smirked. “Easy. You heard I was here fomenting discord and getting people’s heads cut off with a giant head-cutting machine, and you came over to . . ..”

“Thwart you?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with delighted mischief and he wiggled just ever so slightly in his chair. 

“Of course. You might want to leave out the part where I rescued you from the guillotine and then you treated me to some crêpes.” 

Crowley raised his glass, swirling the ruby red wine around the crystal, and then swallowed the last drops. Aziraphale watched as he swallowed; unable to look away, his heart leaping fondly. Candlelight illuminated the entire scene, so it looked like something out of a painting and the angel was filled with such fondness for the demon that had all his previous worries fleeing from his mind.

It wouldn’t be the first time Aziraphale bent the truth for his missives to heaven. It wouldn’t be the last time he left things out regarding the demon Crowley either, to heaven or himself. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat softly. “What about you? Planning to stay in France?” 

Aziraphale almost missed the tightening of Crowley’s lips before he responded, as if he was holding something back. “Nah. I’ve had enough of the French. And the revolution. Shall we?” 

Nodding, Aziraphale left more than enough money for their meals, thanking the server and everyone he passed as they exited, Crowley rolling his eyes behind his glasses at the overwhelming gratitude. Then, the two exited the small bistro and headed out into the now chilly Parisian evening.


	5. Carpe diem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes a leap of faith.

Aziraphale found he really did not want to part company from the demon, despite everything he had been ruminating on. He turned to Crowley. “I’ve got a rather lovely burgundy back at my rooms, if you’re interested,” the angel said casually, the twisting of his pinky ring the only sign of the anxiety he was feeling.

“Why not,” Crowley said, shrugging.

“Oh, splendid!” Aziraphale’s face lit up like a fireworks display before he reached for Crowley’s hand. Surprised, the demon nearly jerked away, but the next thing he knew he saw a gleeful grin cross the angel’s face and heard the snap of his fingers.

They arrived rather dramatically back in Aziraphale’s rooms in London. Not used to doing such a thing with company, the angel misjudged the landing, so to speak. On their arrival, they’d crashed into and subsequently knocked over a dusty tower of books, Crowley sneezing violently in the dust cloud that arose.

“Oh, bless you, my dear boy! I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, hands fluttering about helplessly. 

“Oh dear,” he muttered as he continued to fret, looking about at the upheaval they’d caused. Books were absolutely everywhere.

Crowley sniffed, wiping the dust off his sleeve as he glanced around the room, which was teeming with books and dust motes hung in the air. He studied Aziraphale, who looked back up at him through his lashes with a mixture of embarrassment and feigned helplessness tinged with hope. 

The demon took pity on them both. With a snap of his fingers, the books were restored to their previous precarious tower and the dust was miracled away. 

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale gushed. He smiled at Crowley as if he had been given a precious gift.

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Bloody hell, angel. You’ve got enough books in here to start a book shop,” he quipped. 

The angel laughed. “I suppose I do.”

He led Crowley through to another room, also filled with books, but stacked less haphazardly. There was a comfortable looking sofa, which Crowley immediately sprawled across, seemingly boneless, making himself at home. He looked like he belonged there, the angel thought to himself. 

“I’ll fetch the wine,” Aziraphale said, hurrying into a small alcove; the only sound was glass clinking and the sound of his traitorous heart. What did he think he was doing? He had just spent time ruminating over the fact how nothing could ever, should ever happen between them, and what did he have to do? Invite the bloody demon over for drinks! 

Stop it. We’re just having a drink, and not for the first time, he scolded himself. But, was it just a drink that he wanted? 

True, they’d drunk together countless times over the millennia, but tonight somehow felt different. The angel turned back into the main living area, wine and glasses in hand, taking a deep breath. Agents of heaven nor hell were here right now; it was only the two of them. And besides, the Arrangement had been going on for centuries, and no one was the wiser. Why should anything in addition matter at all? He felt different, as if his short time in the Bastille had given him cause to seize the day.

Crowley had removed his glasses and was rubbing at his eyes. Aziraphale was immediately filled with a rush of affection that it threatened to overwhelm him. “Oh, I really am sorry, Crowley.” He sat down beside the demon and set about pouring the wine, working hard to keep his hands from trembling.

“S’alright angel.” Crowley looked up to take the glass from Aziraphale, and the angel could see a smudge of dust was strewn across the demon’s cheekbone, highlighting its sharpness. Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out and gently wiped it away with his thumb.

Crowley’s pupils dilated, and Aziraphale was immediately mesmerised by the golden amber hue of his irises. He had always found the demon’s eyes so striking and beautiful; like a sunrise the day before a storm was due. 

“Sorry,” he finally managed. “You had a bit of dust. . ..” He took a large sip of wine to wet his suddenly desert dry mouth. 

Crowley also sipped his wine, and then reached out for the angel’s hand, placing it back on his cheek. “Aziraphale,” he said softly. It sounded like a prayer. With it, all coherent thoughts were lost.

The angel’s soft thumb swiped gently along Crowley’s cheekbone. And then ignoring all of the arguments he had set forth to himself earlier, casting all the doubts away, he leaned forward and kissed the demon in front of him.

“Carpe diem,” Aziraphale thought to himself.


	6. Fleeting touch

It was a chaste kiss, as kisses went, but Aziraphale lingered for a few extra seconds unsure if he would ever have another chance at kissing Crowley. Crowley’s lips were surprisingly warm, and he had a fleeting thought that he could lose himself in them for eternity. The demon tasted of wine, coffee and the hint of wood smoke. 

Aziraphale was lost in the sensation, the warmth, until his brain finally caught up with his traitorously pounding heart and he reluctantly pulled away. He could hear the blood rushing through his corporeal body, and it echoed and roared in his ears.

He looked at Crowley, lips kiss crushed and crimson, cheeks flushed pink. His amber eyes were unreadable and Aziraphale was terrified that he once again made the wrong decision.

“Oh goodness! I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, flustered. He wrung his hands anxiously, twisting his fingers in what looked to be a painful and uncomfortable manner.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley blinked, looking bewildered. He reached for his wine and knocked back the entire glass in one mouthful.

“Right, I’d better be off. Need to, uh, erm report into Hell, yes, that’s it,” Crowley rambled, nearly knocking over a table piled high with books as he jumped up off the sofa and hurried towards the door. “Can’t keep Dagon waiting, you know,” he carried on. 

Aziraphale stood and reached out a hand toward Crowley, as if he could stop him. His heart plummeted as Crowley reached the door.

“See you around, Angel,” Crowley said, and before Aziraphale could say anything at all, he was out the door and gone.

_Fuck_, Aziraphale thought for the second time that day.

The following morning Aziraphale found a neatly wrapped parcel on his desk. It contained all of the clothing he had been wearing in Paris the previous day, down to his silk shoes. He ran a hand over the silk shoes fondly, a small, sad smile crossing his face. He picked up his shirt, lace collar and all and brought it up to his nose, hoping he might be able to smell something of the demon Crowley on them, but all he could detect was his own cologne and the hint of parchment and ink.

Carefully, he rearranged all of the clothing neatly in the box, carefully preserving all of the items. While he was always quite cautious and meticulous with his garments, he took extra care with these, knowing that Crowley had gone the extra mile to see them returned to him.

Once he was done with the task, he carried on cataloguing his books in preparation to move them to the bookstore once the interior furnishings were completed. More than once his thoughts turned to Crowley, and he hoped it would not be long until they crossed paths once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness, I can't believe how long it has taken me to finish this! I'm terribly embarrassed!
> 
> Just the epilogue to come now!


	7. Epilogue

Aziraphale often thought about Crowley and the events after the Bastille often as he made his preparations for opening the book shop. More than once he found himself tracing his index finger across his lips; recalling the warmth of Crowley’s lips pressed to his and how delightful (dare he think, heavenly) the feeling had been.

Despite enjoying reliving those sensations, Aziraphale couldn’t help but worry about what would happen the next time Crowley appeared in his life. Would it be awkward, or would Crowley make a rude joke about the entire affair? Or worse, would he not even mention it at all? He dwelled on all of this as he stacked and shelved books in the site that would be known as A.Z Fell & Co.

The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley was at the opening of the book shop. The demon was waving something in the air and mouthing “Michael’s a wanker,” as he listened in disbelief and horror at Gabriel telling the angel that he was being recalled to Heaven. 

The day was not going as the angel had planned, what with the interfering bloody archangels and Crowley appearing and disappearing. At least something had happened (he assumed demonic interference) which would hopefully keep him in his book shop, in London, and more importantly near Crowley for years and years to come.

Aziraphale was ever so relieved (and happy) to see Crowley later that evening, bearing gifts. They drank wine and ate chocolate (well, the angel ate the chocolate) and he realised he had been worrying over nothing; nothing had changed between them.

But, in reality everything had changed the moment their lips met. It would take until 1941, for Aziraphale to have his come to Jesus (so to speak of course) moment, and even longer for him to do anything about it. For now, he would be content with what he had; his book shop and his demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry at the delay in finishing this. I could just simply not find the words. I do hope it has been enjoyed. You can find me on tumblr as antheas-blackberry, if that's something you're in to.


End file.
